Vampire Hunter D: Dark Road Part Three (10 page)

“D!”

The trio was coming up behind the Hunter on the street. Off in the distance, the strains of a guitar could be heard. It was playing a song called “Whenever and Wherever.”

“We have a job—well, really, it's more of a request,” Juke said, looking back at the other two. “It concerns the squirt—Lady Ann. Could you do something to save her?”

Saying nothing, D stared at the faces of the men.

“You see—the three of us talked it over. I don't know all the ins and outs, but at this rate, she'll wind up getting killed. If possible, we'd like you to rescue her.”

“This is the same girl who tried to kill you,” D remarked, his eyes on Gordo.

The bearded man nodded his head. Looking D straight in the eye, he said, “I know that. She's a real piece of work, but she's traveled with us the past few days. And knowing she'll be killed, we just can't leave her to her fate.”

“If you don't wanna do it, we won't force you to. We just thought maybe there was a chance you would. Sorry. Forget we mentioned it.”

Clapping D on the shoulder, Juke headed back to the inn with the other transporters.

“Ain't they a strange bunch,” the Hunter's left hand remarked in a suspicious tone. “After spending a day or two with the same little girl who tried to kill them, they go and ask you to save her—sure are a bunch of softies . . . Huh?”

On witnessing something strange, the hoarse voice stopped speaking.

D was silently gazing at the backs of the three weary men. A smile had begun to form on his lips. If Juke, Gordo, or Sergei had looked over his shoulder at that point, he would've told people for the rest of his life about how he'd put it there. It was just such a smile.

A clamor went up on the street. As this was a post town, most of the buildings on either side of the road were hotels, inns, or places where travelers might be entertained. Even after the sun had gone down, there was still a lot of foot traffic. But in unison the pedestrians had turned their eyes to the opposite end of the street from where D was, and then rushed into the nearest buildings to take shelter. As if a black tide were rolling over them, one shop after another extinguished its lights.

D could already feel with every inch of his body the murderous intent billowing toward him. The lust for killing that had driven even ordinary humans to evacuate radiated from the statuesque armored figure coming from the far end of the street.

“It's Lord Rocambole,” his left hand said. “Probably here to do away with Baron Schuma. Better not get mixed up in this. If you do, he'll just take off.”

But as if to mock what the hoarse voice had said, Lord Rocambole halted about forty or fifty feet from the Hunter.

“Interesting,” said a voice that was somehow unsteady. “I've already slain the one known as Mehmet. Two more and I shall live again. Yet here's a man who by himself would suffice. I am Lord Rocambole. What name do you go by?”

“D.”

“Oh?” the armored figure exclaimed in surprise. “D—I've been summoned to take care of a man by that name.”

D didn't move. The exchange between the pair consisted of words alone.

An evening scene in a peaceful post town—who knew it could be transformed into a battlefield heavy with the shadow of death? No one save warriors might survive here.

“Hey!” someone called out behind D.

In front of the entrance to an inn stood a man wearing vermilion clothes and a top hat and carrying a walking stick, a devilish grin on his face.

“And here's another one—D, we shall meet again,” said the armored figure. Then, with a gait that suggested he'd forgotten all about D, he walked toward his second target—Baron Schuma.

“This should be something to see,” the hoarse voice said with relish, as if they were going to watch a play.

D remained still. Saying nothing, he watched the two men. He'd already seen the baron do his thing at Jalha Station—this man could make his opponents stop and cause blood to gush from their throats without any physical contact at all. No matter how the Hunter's left hand might've feared this Lord Rocambole, one had to wonder if the armored figure could stand up to such a bizarre ability.

The baron's walking stick rose with a smooth movement.

Rocambole halted.

“The baron's setting the pace,” said the hoarse voice.

Breathless observers were congregating in the entrances to darkened shops and hotels. They swallowed hard as they stared at the pair, yet the victor was to be decided with stunning simplicity.

The baron's stick zipped to the right.

The lord's throat popped open. Perhaps it wasn't even a wound.

The lord took a step forward. The spectators imagined the baron leaping away. In fact, he did make a leap.

Lord Rocambole drew his sword from his hip. Aiming it at the baron, who was still high in the air, he swung it. Then he did so twice more.

The baron landed.

“I've taken your measure,” Schuma said with a wry grin. “And you can't beat D. He's all yours, Hunter!”

Three crimson lines shot through his body, and the baron fell to the ground in six separate pieces. An unbelievable amount of fresh blood spilled out onto the street, soaking the ground like a passing shower.

“Hmm,” a voice croaked from the vicinity of D's hip, sounding suitably impressed. The baron's death had been that stunning.

He, too, had been connected to D—tied by the invisible strings of some unknown puppet master. Yet the one who'd cut those strings didn't appear to have any feelings regarding the gorgeous Hunter. The death match that had lasted mere seconds was over, and the armored figure still stood on the road, not even letting out a sigh as he brought the hand that held his sword to his throat. With one touch the wound vanished.

“That makes two . . . D, we'll meet again after I've finished with the third.”

D responded, “About that—I can't let you kill her.”

When he took a step forward, the air on the street congealed with a new tension—far more intense than what had come before. Ten feet separated D and Lord Rocambole. This alone measured the length of one of their lives. Like Baron Schuma, this Nobleman had the ability to slay a foe without his blade ever touching—so victory would have to be seized before he ever moved his sword.

When D's blade danced out to reflect the darkness, Lord Rocambole assumed a posture to parry it. He raised his left arm to meet the blow. There was a dull thud that wasn't just the sound of armor being pierced. Though people saw the arm fall in the street, they didn't witness D's blade reversing direction to sink into the lord's chest.

Sparks scattered with a beautiful sound.

As the armored figure made a great leap back, an almost plaintive cry went through the crowd, although not even they knew why that was.

Even after his left arm had been severed, Lord Rocambole had met D's second blow with one of his own. The blade limned an arc. D had been in no position to dodge the mysterious attack. From the left side of his neck to his right lung a streak that was black even to night sight shot through him, with fresh blood spraying out as if to make a desperate escape. He fell to one knee on the street.

It was still Rocambole's turn to be on the offensive. However, the armored figure who'd parried D's blow lowered his sword and staggered a bit. Losing that arm had probably damaged him more than he knew.

Stained reddish black from the chest down, D got up again.

Lord Rocambole's sword also rose.

No sooner had the people drawn a deep breath in expectation of the next life-or-death spectacle than they heard a rumbling and the rattling of wheels approaching. A black carriage drawn by enormous horses appeared from the same end of the road from which Lord Rocambole had come.

D and Lord Rocambole leapt back, and both were left reeling again from their grievous injuries.

The carriage stopped between them. It was so huge it'd mercilessly ripped down signs and shaved the eaves off buildings on either side of the road. The person who stepped from its door was clearly none other than the great General Gaskell.

Taking a long, hard look at the two men, one to either side of him, the general said with very real admiration, “I had a bad feeling about this and came as fast as I could, but this really is most incredible. However, it shall have to be settled next time. D—I have the girl. Will you come and see if you can rescue her before Lord Rocambole has recovered from his wounds?”

Jabbing a finger at the darkened western sky, he continued, “You remember where my castle is, I take it? We'll be waiting in the front courtyard. Needless to say, I won't mind if you don't come, either. Get in, Lord Rocambole.”

The pair climbed in and shut the door—and at that instant, D sprang. After his blade sank into the roof of the carriage and slashed at an angle through half of the door that had nearly closed, the Hunter once again dropped to one knee.

“My castle. I'll be waiting for you!” the great general said, his shouts giving way to mocking laughter an instant before the carriage dissolved into the darkness.

When D started walking to where his steed was tethered, Sergei ran over to him. His face pale, the transporter said, “We've got a problem. While we were watching you guys fighting, Rosaria disappeared.”

—

III

—

Carrying a woman in a negligee, the horse galloped single-mindedly down the highway in the one direction it shouldn't have been going. Travelers on Frontier roads were generally few and far between as it approached midnight, but if there had been any around, they probably wouldn't have noticed her wardrobe half as much as the fact that her arms were wrapped around the horse's neck instead of holding the reins and that she was slumped forward against the beast. She might've been out riding and had an accident, only to have her startled steed race along madly—but that couldn't be it, as her horse's gait was too controlled, and no animal would keep going this long with its rider unconscious.

Even if someone had noticed that a black shadow clung tight to the woman's back, and that long, thin shapes that seemed like hands seemed to reach for the reins, he never could've imagined that the shadow possessed a will of its own and was controlling the rampaging animal. It was Major General Gillis who'd kidnapped Rosaria from the inn.

In no time he came to Castle Gaskell, towering in the darkness. From the front courtyard to the great hall, Rosaria used her own two feet, but only because Major General Gillis still clung to her and worked them for her.

“So glad you made it back,” Gaskell said, his voice seeming to issue from the heavens and the earth, and with that Major General Gillis pulled free of Rosaria. Finally, Rosaria fell to the floor.

“As promised, I've returned with a replacement. Don't tell me Lady Ann has already been—”

“She's over there.”

They heard a door opening off to the right. Behind it stood Lady Ann, now in a white dress. The look she gave Major General Gillis—or rather, the shadow that lay on the floor—burned with hatred and repulsion.

“The love of your life has returned, Lady Ann,” the great general teased.

“Kindly stop that. You've taken this joke too far,” the girl said in a tone devoid of even the tiniest bit of warmth.

“What a callous thing to say. The peerless assassin known as the Dark One has stooped to kidnapping, all for your sake.”

“It's only natural, as I love another. Even if he might never love me in return,” the girl said, each and every word viciously barbed.

“As we agreed back in the hunting shack, I've brought you back a replacement for Lady Ann. Now you can sacrifice her instead to awaken Lord Rocambole and—”

“Ah, if only I could.”

“What?” the shadow on the floor exclaimed, shaking violently.

“The woman you brought back won't serve as a replacement. You see, she isn't one of the assassins I selected.”

“Wait. Why didn't you tell me that before?”

“Because, for some reason, I have need of that woman. Sooner or later, I had to get her back here. And you were able to help me with that. However, I can't use her in Lady Ann's place.”

“You've tricked me, Gaskell!” Major General Gillis bellowed in anger. “We must flee, Lady Ann—you mustn't remain here!”

The shadow glided over to the girl's feet. He started to rise up over her toes—and then fell back to the floor.

Lady Ann had suddenly vanished.

“A holograph, Major General Gillis,” Gaskell jeered. “And if you didn't notice as much, then your sick infatuation must've affected your eyesight. Ha! Who knew there were deviants even among the shadows? However, now that Schuma's and Mehmet's lives have been taken, we need only one more to make Lord Rocambole one of us. So, would you care to go in her stead?”

The general's laughter continued for a short while, but then it ended abruptly. Major General Gillis had started to laugh as well.

He said, “No, I'm not especially proud of the way I acted. When you come right down to it, there's no life I value more than my own. I'll be more than happy to let you have Lady Ann.”

“That's what's known as discretion,” Gaskell's voice remarked. “Since we've taken the two women, D is sure to come here. I couldn't be sure about Lady Ann alone, but he'll do it as long as he's still working as a guard for the men with that cargo wagon. Lord Rocambole and I should be more than a match for him, but how about you, Gillis—will you aid us?”

“With pleasure.”

“In that case—wait in your room. I have some arrangements to make to prepare for our guest.”

“What of Lady Ann?”

“Still not over her yet? That's understandable. In recognition of your love for the girl, we shall hold off on offering her life to the lord until D comes.”

“That's most generous of you,” the shadow said, donning a despicable expression.

Then, in an even more despicable tone, he said, “Before then, if at all possible, I'd like to—at least once, that is.”

“Very well,” said the voice from the ceiling. This time, it had a ring of lechery and scorn to it. “Before we take her life, you may
express your feelings
for her. Lady Ann is at the summit of the Red Tower.”

—

As soon as he heard Rosaria had been abducted, D readied to set out. Ordinarily that would consist of just checking the hooves of his cyborg horse, which hardly seemed like preparing for battle, but this time was different. When the transporter trio called on D's room, he was scrutinizing the blade of the sword he'd kept drawn.

Entering when he told them they could, Juke and the others swallowed hard at the daunting solemnity of his expression. However, D quickly sheathed his sword.

“I'm off,” was all he said. He didn't sound like it had required the least bit of resolve.

“You mean to tell me you'll go?” Juke said, giving him a doleful look.

“We've got a contract,” D replied.

“Sorry. We end up saddling you with everything.”

“Don't worry about it. Humans are powerless against someone of that nature. This is my job.”

The whole group went outside. At some point the clouds had broken, and above them was a sky filled with stars.

D mounted his steed in front of the inn. The young man had nothing to say in parting. He made an easy wave of his right hand. And with that, he wheeled his horse around.

“Oh, that's one heck of a starry sky,” the hoarse voice said.

Galloping off with the sound of hoofbeats ringing in the air, the black horse and rider were soon swallowed by the darkness.

With nothing to say, the three men silently stood beneath the star-filled heavens.

—

Grunting, the great General Gaskell opened a heavy door. He was in the basement of the Storage Tower, which stood at the southern end of the castle. Despite its name, all the really dangerous items and valuable treasures were kept in another location. The enormous, ten-foot-thick door and the walls that surrounded it were made of the same ultra-high-density steel. Rumor had it that the only things that could destroy this vault were an antiproton bomb or the curse of the Sacred Ancestor.

While listening to the groan of the door shutting behind him, Gaskell saw the sofa that had been placed in the center of this vast chamber and the figure that lay on it. The sight startled him.

Antiproton cannons, dimensional-shift generators, carcinogenic creatures, simulacra for curses—enough weapons to kill everything on the planet a hundred times over had been moved to a different location out of fear of a psychotic incident. The fanaticism of a single Noble might destroy the world. Of course, that one Noble alone was enough to destroy the world already.

“Lord Rocambole,” Gaskell called out from thirty feet away. Honestly, he didn't want to get too close to this particular Nobleman.

The figure on the sofa slowly turned in his direction. His armor had been removed and discarded on the floor. He wore a white shirt and scarf, as well as white riding breeches. His young, well-formed face was conspicuous for its awful pallor. The eyes that reflected Gaskell filled with a reason they had lacked before.

“General Gaskell?” he replied in a lethargic tone.

“Correct. You've received two of the three lives. Only one to go—there are two prospects for that. I leave it to you to decide which it shall be.”

Though the Gaskell reflected in his blue eyes grinned despicably, the young man—Lord Rocambole—merely changed the direction he faced sleepily.

Presently, he said in a low voice, “The next thing I knew, I'd been given life again—not that I particularly wanted it, but now that I have it, I'm loath to discard it. My good general, where are these girls?”

“Would you like to meet them?”

“The last two were men—but I should like to see what sort of girl is going to revive me. I really must thank her.”

“And then kill her when you're done,” the great general said with a casual irony. “Let us go, then. I shall introduce you to them.”

The general headed for the door.

“Before we do—”

These words made Gaskell halt. But he didn't seem unnerved.

“—I should like to test myself against you.”

Gaskell turned around.

Lord Rocambole stood by the sofa. His right hand was lowered, but in it gleamed a longsword.

As Gaskell gazed at the Nobleman, his eyes flooded with an intense gleam. He, too, was an intrepid and resolute warrior.

“Good enough. But since you've challenged me, this will be more than simple sparring!” he spat somewhat unreasonably, his psyche already focused on Lord Rocambole's destruction.

Neither made the first move; rather, they drew in unison. The glowing blue longsword and the huge black blade easily twice its size squared off some fifteen to twenty feet from each other. What kind of arc would the ends of those blades trace? Enormous and chilly, the room had seemed to brim with gloom from the very beginning—but now it was strung with tension.

Just which of them started to close the gap first was impossible to say. In the center of the floor between them there was a mellifluous ring and a shower of sparks. Narrowly parrying Gaskell's jab, the longsword slid closer without making a sound. Blocking it with the armored back of his left gauntlet, the great general made a series of thrusts.

Up until the third, they traded blow for blow—but perhaps not feeling up to this, Lord Rocambole leapt back a good fifteen feet. He landed. And Gaskell was right in front of him. They'd leapt the very same distance simultaneously.

“That was Baron Schuma's special skill—shame on you for appropriating it.”

As the general said this, a white light appeared in this chamber that was supposedly inviolate. The lightning Gaskell launched had pierced Lord Rocambole.

A youthful face wracked by pain. A sneering grin from another half hidden by an iron mask. And then there was a new expression—Rocambole broke into a smile.

Gaskell was astounded. From head to foot, the general felt the same blistering heat and numbing shock Rocambole had felt. In his astonishment, he stopped discharging lightning.

With white smoke rising from every inch of him, Lord Rocambole said softly, “So, this is
your
secret skill, General?”